Fat friendly space

​But a late-night curiosity led her into a dark corner of the internet: the world of feederism. At first, she watched the videos and read the stories with a sense of clinical detachment. Then came the thrill of the taboo. The idea of completely surrendering the rigid discipline that ruled her life began to take root in her mind like a fever.

​The Subtle Shifts

​It began harmlessly. She started allowing herself "cheat days" that slowly bled into the rest of the week. Elena began to crave the sensation of fullness, a feeling she had spent years avoiding. The ritual of eating until her stomach pushed hard against her waistbands became the highlight of her day.

​The first real sign of trouble arrived during the spring track season. Elena was in the locker room, preparing for a time trial. She pulled on her official team-issued speed suit—a skin-tight, aerodynamic one-piece designed to compress and streamline.

​As she pulled the spandex up over her thighs, she felt an unfamiliar resistance. Her breath hitched. The fabric strained dangerously against her upper thighs, which had softened and thickened at the top, losing their gap. She tugged harder, trying to yank the zipper up her torso.

​Rip.

​The sound was sharp in the quiet locker room. The seam along her hip had split open, exposing a soft, pale pinch of new flesh that definitely hadn't been there two months ago.

​"Elena? You good in there?" her coach called from the doorway.

​"Yeah! Just... a snag!" Elena stammered, her face burning a furious crimson. She had to awkwardly wrap a track jacket around her waist for the rest of the day, sweating with anxiety, terrified that someone would notice the sudden, uncharacteristic softness spilling through the broken threads.

​That night, gripped by a frantic mix of fear and deep, dark arousal, she went into the bathroom and pulled out the dusty digital scale. She stepped on.

​178.4 lbs.

​She stared at the numbers. She had gained nearly twenty-five pounds, but because of her tall frame, it had distributed subtly—thickening her waist, filling out her hips, and softening the sharp angles of her collarbones. Looking at herself in the mirror, she didn't feel the disgust she expected. Instead, a heavy, warm rush of excitement pooled in her stomach. The vampirasux persona was officially born.

​The Breaking Point and The Pen

​By the time the next semester rolled around, Elena had quit the track team entirely, unable to face the constant uniform fittings and the judgment of her peers. She spent her days in her apartment, ordering takeout and documenting her gradual expansion for a growing audience of online admirers who praised every new pound.

​But the thrill faded into a cold, hard panic the morning she stepped onto the scale and the digital display locked into a number she never thought she’d see.

​202.2 lbs.

​The '2' at the front of the number broke the spell. Panic, sharp and unforgiving, flooded her. Two hundred pounds. She was officially, medically overweight, creeping toward a territory she couldn't undo. The shame was sudden and suffocating. She deleted her forum accounts, blocked her enablers, and decided she had to fight this sickness before it ruined her life.

​Desperate for a quick fix to kill the psychological hunger, she spent weeks researching GLP-1 weight-loss medications. Because she didn't meet the strict criteria for a standard prescription, she turned to a sketchy online wellness clinic. She emptied her savings account, shelling out over twelve hundred dollars for a single month's supply of a compounded semaglutide injection pen.

​The experiment was a nightmare. The weekly shots made her physically nauseous, but they did absolutely nothing to quiet the raging obsession in her mind. The physical emptiness in her stomach only made her feel hollow and anxious. The drug was a financial ruin, and by the third week, the psychological compulsion to feel the heavy, stretching comfort of a massive meal defeated the medication. She actively forced herself to eat through the waves of nausea, desperate for the familiar high.

​At the end of the month, she stepped back onto the scale, praying the expensive medicine had at least kept her steady.

​209.8 lbs.

​She had gained weight through the medication. The pen was useless, her money was gone, and her willpower was entirely shattered. Defeated, Elena threw the remaining supplies into the trash. The surrender that followed was total.

​The Unstoppable Expansion

​With her resistance gone, Elena leaned into her gluttony with a terrifying fervor. Months blurred together in a haze of heavy cream, fast food, and thousands of calories a day. Her tall, 5-foot-11.5-inch frame, which had once masked the weight, began to succumb to the sheer volume of the fat.

​One morning, after a particularly heavy weekend of binging, she stepped onto the scale, bracing herself.

​243.5 lbs.

​She gasped. Her body was completely transforming. Her breasts had swollen into heavy, pendulous mounds that rested flat against her torso. Her waist was entirely gone, replaced by a thick, prominent roll of soft fat that hung low over her sweatpants. Her thighs were massive pillars now, rubbing together so violently when she walked that she had to slather herself in anti-chafing cream just to move around her apartment.

​She became a functional recluse, only leaving her apartment in the dead of night to throw out trash or collect groceries. But isolation couldn’t protect her from her own size forever.

​The second humiliating incident happened on a sweltering July afternoon. The building's elevator was out for maintenance, forcing Elena to take the stairs to the third floor to retrieve a massive delivery of groceries left at the main entrance.

​She was wearing her largest outfit: a pair of stretched-out men’s 3XL sweatpants and a tent-like t-shirt. By the time she reached the second-floor landing, carrying two heavy bags, her heart was hammering violently against her ribs. She was wheezing loudly, her tall frame drenched in sweat.

​Suddenly, her foot caught on the edge of a step.

​With her center of gravity completely altered by the massive, low-hanging apron of her belly, she couldn't catch her balance. She went down heavily, the grocery bags bursting open. Cans of soup, pints of ice cream, and bakery boxes cascaded down the concrete stairs.

​The impact was deafening. Worse, she was wedged awkwardly between the handrail and the wall, her massive hips and heavy backside stuck fast. She tried to push herself up, but her arms, now thick with heavy, swinging flab, trembled and gave out.

​"Hello? Is someone hurt?"

​It was her neighbor, a young, fit guy who lived on the second floor—someone she used to jog past a year ago. He came out into the hallway and stopped dead, his jaw literally dropping.

​Elena was trapped on the floor, her massive belly spilling out from under her shirt, her face purple with exertion and shame. She looked like a stranded whale, sweating and panting, surrounded by scattered junk food.

​"Uh... do you need help?" he asked, his voice a mix of profound shock and unfiltered disgust. He couldn't hide the pity in his eyes as he looked at the sheer volume of the woman before him.

​"No! Don't touch me! Go away!" Elena shrieked, tears of absolute mortification bursting from her eyes.

​Using every ounce of leverage she had left, she painfully dragged her heavy body backward, scraping her skin, and scrambled up the remaining stairs on her hands and knees like an animal, abandoning half her groceries. She slammed her apartment door, locked all three deadbolts, and collapsed against it, sobbing hysterically.

​The Final Weigh-In

​The incident permanently broke her relationship with the outside world. She knew she could never let anyone see her again. She was a monster, a prisoner of her own insatiable desires.

​A week after the stairwell disaster, she finally gathered the courage to stand on the scale again. She stripped naked, her heavy, dimpled flesh swaying with every movement. She looked down, barely able to see past the massive, cascading mountain of her stomach.

​She waited for the beep.

​274.2 lbs.

​A choked sound escaped her throat. Nearly 275 pounds. Her face was completely round now, a heavy double chin resting against her neck, her skin mapped with deep, angry red stretch marks that looked like lightning bolts across her widened hips.

​She sat on the edge of her reinforced bed, her massive thighs spreading out beneath her, completely filling the mattress. The shame was a crushing, agonizing weight in her chest. She had ruined her life. She was an athlete who had turned herself into a mountain of helpless fat.

​And yet, as she looked at her reflection in the full-length mirror across the room—taking in the sheer, immense scale of her new form, the magnificent thickness of her waist, the heavy softness of her arms—a familiar, dark wave of intense excitement washed over her. She was vast. She was dominant.

Until I cum.

**Part 3: The McDonald’s Night**

Isla pulled into the car park of the big McDonald’s on the high street just before eight, her pulse racing like she was committing a delicious crime. The place glowed neon against the dark—busy enough for cover, quiet enough for intimacy. She’d changed twice before leaving her flat, finally settling on black leggings that clung to her fuller thighs and a cropped hoodie that rode up whenever she moved, exposing the soft lower curve of her belly. At 298 pounds, every new ounce felt like a secret invitation.

She spotted him immediately through the window: Ryan in a corner booth, casual in dark jeans and a fitted black shirt that stretched across his shoulders. No white coat now—just raw, off-duty attractiveness. His eyes found hers as she pushed through the door, and the slow smile he gave her sent heat straight between her legs.

“You came,” he said as she approached, voice that honey-smooth murmur she’d replayed in her head for months.

“I couldn’t not,” she admitted, cheeks already warm.

He gestured to the booth opposite him. “Sit with me.”

The fixed table and bench seat looked innocent enough—until she tried to slide in. Her belly, rounder and heavier now, met the edge first. The overhang pressed firmly against the tabletop, forcing her to suck in and twist awkwardly. Her thighs spread wide on the seat, soft flesh spilling over the edges; her belly settled heavily onto her lap, squishing further against the unyielding table. A little jiggle rippled through her as she finally settled, the cropped hoodie riding up to bare a pale strip of stretched skin.

Ryan’s gaze dropped to the trapped swell, darkening instantly. He shifted in his seat, one hand discreetly adjusting the front of his jeans.

“These booths weren’t made for… someone like me anymore,” she said with a nervous laugh, face burning crimson.

“They look perfect to me,” he murmured, eyes lifting to hers with undisguised hunger.

The air between them crackled. Small talk lasted seconds.

“I haven’t lost any of the weight you wanted me to,” she confessed softly, fingers tracing the edge of the table where it dug into her softness. “Actually… I’ve put on more. About twenty pounds.”

His brow lifted, but the corner of his mouth curved. “Twenty?”

She nodded, breath shallow. “Part of it is just… I love eating too much. But mostly—” She met his eyes, voice dropping. “Mostly it’s because I couldn’t stop thinking about your hands on me in your office. How it felt when you touched my belly. It turned me on so much I’d binge every time I remembered.”

Ryan exhaled slowly, leaning forward. “Isla… I’ve thought about that appointment every day. The way you felt under my fingers—so soft, so warm. I’ve wanted to touch you again more than I should admit.” His voice roughened. “But as your doctor, I can’t. I’d love to explore this, all of it… but I absolutely can’t while I’m still your physician.”

Her heart hammered. “What if you weren’t my doctor?” she whispered. “I can deregister from the practice tomorrow.”

The words hung between them. His eyes flared, something predatory and relieved breaking across his face.

He smiled—slow, devastating. “Then everything changes.”

A pause. His gaze dropped to her compressed belly again, then back up. Voice low and intimate: “So… what would you like to eat?”

Isla’s breath caught. Wet heat pulsed between her thighs.

“Everything,” she said.

Ryan pulled out his phone, opened the McDonald’s app without breaking eye contact. His thumb moved deliberately across the screen.

The first order arrived quickly—two trays sliding onto the table: steaming Big Macs, large fries golden and salty, large chocolate milkshakes thick and cold.

He didn’t touch a thing. Just watched as Isla unwrapped the first burger, taking a huge, greedy bite. Sauce dripped at the corner of her mouth; she moaned softly at the rich, juicy flavour. Fries next, dipped in shake, then long pulls of the creamy chocolate. Her belly tightened against the table, beginning to swell.

He ordered again before she’d finished the first meal—more burgers, nuggets, dippers, pies. In his mind, he tallied roughly: enough to push well past what most people could manage, plenty left over. The trays piled up, wrappers crinkling, the table a tempting excess.

“I’ve ordered way more than you can eat,” he said softly, voice warm. “Just have as much as you want. We can leave the rest.”

Isla nodded, lost in the indulgence, eating steadily—burger after burger, nuggets crunched and dipped, shakes gulped until her stomach felt heavy and hot. The food disappeared faster than she expected, her body responding to his steady gaze, the quiet encouragement in his eyes.

But eventually, the fullness hit hard. Her pace slowed; she leaned back slightly, one hand pressing low on her belly as it domed tighter, rounder, pushing insistently against the table. A soft gasp escaped her—breathing shallower now, the weight settling deep.

Ryan watched every shift, every little rub of her hand. Without a word, he slid his arm under the table, fingers finding the warm, plush underside of her belly where it spilled heaviest over her leggings. He caressed it very, very gently—thumb tracing slow circles into the softest fat, palm cupping the deep overhang with feather-light pressure.

The touch exploded through her like lightning. Heat surged between her legs; her nipples hardened instantly. A whimper slipped out as arousal flooded her, overriding the fullness. Suddenly, she needed more—needed to show him, to feel this stuffed for him.

She reached for another burger, then fries, then a pie—pushing past the tightness, swallowing with deliberate moans. Ryan’s hand stayed, stroking gently, eyes locked on her face, her mouth, the way her belly bloomed even fuller under his touch.

Finally, she stopped, hands cradling the massive swell, dazed and glowing. Half the food remained untouched—exactly as he’d planned.

Ryan withdrew his hand slowly, paid the bill, and stood. “Come with me.”

Isla braced her hands on the table to push herself up. Her swollen belly, bloated and heavy, caught on the edge for a moment—she had to twist and suck in, the motion sending a ripple through her stuffed stomach. Shallow breaths came quick; balance wavered slightly as the sheer weight of the meal pulled at her centre. Her leggings dug tighter into her hips, the cropped hoodie barely covering the taut dome.

Heads turned—staff pausing behind the counter, a few customers glancing over—as she finally extracted herself, belly bouncing softly with the effort. She followed him toward the door, but slowly now: a heavy, sensual waddle, thighs brushing, hips rolling wide, every step reminding her how full, how soft, how utterly claimed she felt.

Ryan glanced back, eyes dark with promise.

Three months had passed since that appointment, and Isla had tried—really, she had. The diet sheet Dr. Carter gave her had lived in her purse for a week before she tossed it into a drawer. Every time she opened the fridge with good intentions, his hands came back to her: the slow, deliberate press into her soft belly, the warm weight of his palm cupping the lowest roll, the honey-smooth murmur of “two-seventy-eight” that still made her thighs clench. The memory lit a fuse. She’d close the fridge, order takeaway, and eat until her stomach domed tight and hot, one hand slipping beneath her waistband as she imagined his eyes on her.

Twenty pounds had settled onto her frame since then—soft, undeniable pounds that made her belly rounder, heavier, the overhang deeper. At 298 lbs, her body felt lusher, more pendulous; her thighs kissed constantly now, and her breasts strained against every bra she owned. She told herself she wasn’t doing it on purpose. But she was.

Today she’d invented an excuse to come back to the medical complex: a repeat prescription for something trivial. Really, she just wanted to breathe the same air as him again, even if from a distance. She wore a thin black wrap dress that clung to every new curve, the fabric stretching across her belly and dipping low between her breasts. Nerves fluttered low in her stomach as she stepped out of the lift on the ground floor and headed toward the cafeteria.

The place was modern and busy—long counters offering everything from sad little salads to gleaming waffle makers, burgers under heat lamps, cakes in a chilled display. The smell of bacon and syrup curled through the air. Isla’s mouth watered instantly.

She had just reached for a tray when the lift doors pinged behind her. She didn’t turn at first—until that low, familiar voice drifted past, speaking to a colleague.

“…see you tomorrow, then.”

Her heart slammed against her ribs. She glanced over her shoulder. Dr. Ryan Carter stepped off the lift, white coat unbuttoned over a charcoal shirt that hugged his lean torso, dark hair just slightly tousled like he’d run a hand through it. He looked unfairly good—calm, controlled, devastating. His gaze swept the cafeteria, paused, and locked on her.

For a second he didn’t move. His eyes travelled slowly—down over the fuller swell of her breasts, the way the wrap dress cinched beneath them and then flared over the generous curve of her belly, down to where her hips strained the fabric. Something flickered across his face: recognition, surprise, and then something hotter that he quickly banked.

Isla’s cheeks burned. She turned back to the counter, hands trembling as she loaded her tray—two bacon-and-egg muffins, a hash brown, a Belgian waffle dripping with syrup and cream, a large chocolate milkshake. Indulgent, obvious choices. She felt his stare on her back the entire time, warm and heavy.

Ryan stood frozen near the lift. Three months of trying to forget the way her flesh had yielded under his fingers, the little catch in her breath when he’d squeezed. Three months of telling himself it was unprofessional, inappropriate, impossible. And now here she was—softer, rounder, even more lush than he remembered. His pulse thudded low and insistent.

He should leave. Grab his usual salad and go.

Instead he found himself at the salad bar, mechanically adding grilled chicken and leaves to a bowl while his eyes tracked her every movement: the soft sway of her hips as she walked to the till, the gentle bounce of her belly against the dress, the way she had to turn sideways slightly to navigate between tables.

He paid for his food. Told himself he would walk straight past her table.

He didn’t.

“Isla.”

His voice was quiet, velvet-rough. She looked up from her seat in a corner booth, eyes wide, lips parted around the straw of her milkshake. A faint chocolate smear lingered at the corner of her mouth.

“Dr. Carter—hi.” Her voice came out breathy. She shifted, and the motion made her belly press briefly against the edge of the table.

“Mind if I join you for a minute?” He gestured with his tray. “Long morning.”

“Please.” She gestured too quickly, knocking her napkin to the floor. They both bent at the same time; their fingers brushed as he picked it up. Electricity snapped up her arm.

He slid into the seat opposite. Up close, the changes in her were intoxicating—cheeks fuller, neck softer, the deep V of her dress revealing the upper curves of breasts that looked heavier, more inviting. And her belly: round and proud beneath the table, resting softly on her thighs.

“You look… well,” he said carefully.

She gave a nervous laugh. “That’s one way to put it.”

A pause. He speared a forkful of salad but didn’t eat it. “How have you been managing with the plan we discussed?”

Isla’s fingers tightened around her milkshake. “Not… brilliantly.” She met his eyes, a spark of boldness flaring. “I kept thinking about my last visit. It was… distracting.”

His fork stilled. Hazel eyes darkened. “Distracting how?”

Heat flooded her face, but she didn’t look away. “The way you examined me. Your hands. I couldn’t stop remembering it every time I tried to be ‘good.’”

Ryan’s jaw tightened. He set the fork down. “Isla, you shouldn’t—”

“I know,” she said quickly. “I know it’s not professional. But it’s why I’m… bigger now.” She placed a hand low on her belly, almost protectively. The gesture drew his gaze helplessly.

He exhaled slowly. “I’ve thought about that appointment more than I should have,” he admitted, voice low. “More than would be appropriate for your doctor.”

The air between them crackled.

He glanced around—no one nearby, the cafeteria hum providing cover—then leaned forward slightly. “I eat at the McDonald’s on the high street most Thursday nights. The big one with the late drive-thru. Around eight.” His tone was casual, but his eyes held hers with unmistakable intensity. “If you ever felt like… something less healthy than this place.”

Isla’s breath caught. It wasn’t a question. It wasn’t quite an invitation. It was possibility, laid carefully on the table between them.

He stood before she could answer, tray in hand. “Take care of yourself, Isla.” A pause, softer: “I hope to see you soon.”

Then he was gone, leaving her heart racing and her body thrumming with anticipation.

She stared at her half-eaten waffle, appetite suddenly secondary to a different kind of hunger.

Tonight. Eight o’clock.